"I have one more confidence to repose in you. The nurse who has charge of Miss Grey was in my class in the hospital. We love each other, and to her I dared appeal on one point. Inspector--" here my voice unconsciously fell as he impetuously drew nearer--"a note was sent from that sick chamber on the night of the ball,--a note surreptitiously written by Miss Grey, while the nurse was in an adjoining room. The messenger was Mr. Grey's valet, and its destination the house in which her father was enjoying his position as chief guest. She says that it was meant for him, but I have dared to think that the valet would tell a different story. My friend did not see what her patient wrote, but she acknowledged that if her patient wrote more than two words the result must have been an unintelligible scrawl, since she was too weak to hold a pencil firmly, and so nearly blind that she would have had to feel her way over the paper."
The inspector started, and, rising hastily, went to his desk, from which he presently brought the scrap of paper which had already figured in the inquest as the mysterious communication taken from Mrs. Fairbrother's hand by the coroner. Pressing it out flat, he took another look at it, then glanced up in visible discomposure.
"It has always looked to us as if written in the dark, by an agitated hand; but--"
I said nothing; the broken and unfinished scrawl was sufficiently eloquent.
"Did your friend declare Miss Grey to have written with a pencil and on a small piece of unruled paper?"
"Yes, the pencil was at her bedside; the paper was torn from a book which lay there. She did not put the note when written in an envelope, but gave it to the valet just as it was. He is an old man and had come to her room for some final orders."
"The nurse saw all this? Has she that book?"
"No, it went out next morning, with the scraps. It was some pamphlet, I believe."
The inspector turned the morsel of paper over and over in his hand.
"What is this nurse's name?"
"Henrietta Pierson."
"Does she share your doubts?"
"I can not say."
"You have seen her often?"
"No, only the one time."
"Is she discreet?"
"Very. On this subject she will be like the grave unless forced by you to speak."
"And Miss Grey?"
"She is still ill, too ill to be disturbed by questions, especially on so delicate a topic. But she is getting well fast.
Her father's fears as we heard them expressed on one memorable occasion were ill founded, sir."
Slowly the inspector inserted this scrap of paper between the folds of his pocketbook. He did not give me another look, though I stood trembling before him. Was he in any way convinced or was he simply seeking for the most considerate way in which to dismiss me and my abominable theory? I could not gather his intentions from his expression, and was feeling very faint and heart-sick when he suddenly turned upon me with the remark:
"A girl as ill as you say Miss Grey was must have had some very pressing matter on her mind to attempt to write and send a message under such difficulties. According to your idea, she had some notion of her father's designs and wished to warn Mrs.
Fairbrother against them. But don't you see that such conduct as this would be preposterous, nay, unparalleled in persons of their distinction? You must find some other explanation for Miss Grey's seemingly mysterious action, and I an agent of crime other than one of England's most reputable statesmen."
"So that Mr. Durand is shown the same consideration, I am content," said I. "It is the truth and the truth only I desire. I am willing to trust my cause with you."
He looked none too grateful for this confidence. Indeed, now that I look back on this scene, I do not wonder that he shrank from the responsibility thus foisted upon him.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked.
"Prove something. Prove that I am altogether wrong or altogether right. Or if proof is not possible, pray allow me the privilege of doing what I can myself to clear up the matter."
"You?"
There was apprehension, disapprobation, almost menace in his tone. I bore it with as steady and modest a glance as possible, saying, when I thought he was about to speak again:
"I will do nothing without your sanction. I realize the dangers of this inquiry and the disgrace that would follow if our attempt was suspected before proof reached a point sufficient to justify it. It is not an open attack I meditate, but one--"
Here I whispered in his ear for several minutes. when I had finished he gave me a prolonged stare, then he laid his hand on my head.
"You are a little wonder," he declared. "But your ideas are very quixotic, very. However," he added, suddenly growing grave, "something, I must admit, may be excused a young girl who finds herself forced to choose between the guilt of her lover and that of a man esteemed great by the world, but altogether removed from her and her natural sympathies."
"You acknowledge, then, that it lies between these two?"
"I see no third," said he.
I drew a breath of relief.
"Don't deceive yourself, Miss Van Arsdale; it is not among the possibilities that Mr. Grey has had any connection with this crime. He is an eccentric man, that's all."
"But--but--"
"I shall do my duty. I shall satisfy you and myself on certain points, and if--" I hardly breathed "--there is the least doubt, I will see you again and--"
The change he saw in me frightened away the end of his sentence.
Turning upon me with some severity, he declared: "There are nine hundred and ninety-nine chances in a thousand that my next word to you will be to prepare yourself for Mr. Durand's arraignment and trial. But an infinitesimal chance remains to the contrary.
If you choose to trust to it, I can only admire your pluck and the great confidence you show in your unfortunate lover."
And with this half-hearted encouragement I was forced to be content, not only for that day, but for many days, when--
